Heavy Snow
by Imperium42
Summary: In his younger years, Lord Harrion Flint enjoys some of life's simple pleasures during a night of drunken tourney feasting, but the consequences are far worse than he expects. A hard M twoshot on the origins of Ser Barbrey Snow, one of the OCs from my other fic, The Luck of Fools.
**272 AC**

 **White Harbor**

The Manderly tourney was the largest the realm had seen in decades. Half a hundred houses from across the Seven Kingdoms were in attendance, and though Aerys himself had not deigned to attend, all the lofty nobles of the realm had arrived in his stead. Steffon Baratheon, the Hand of the King, appeared at the head of a great host of Stormlords, while Rickard Stark brought half the north with him, his young son Brandon in tow. Hoster Tully and Tywin Lannister arrived together with a massive crowd of their own bannermen, while Ser Barristan Selmy escorted the young prince Rhaegar Targaryen to observe the festivities at the king's behest.

A thousand men came to celebrate Wyman Manderly's accession, and the new Lord of White Harbor did not disappoint. The tourney began with a full day of feasting, to be followed by two days of jousting and melees; the first night's dinner certainly did not disappoint. Wyman's fisherman seemed to have brought the entirety of the Bite to the great hall of the New Castle, and his chefs had made liberal use of the recent harvest. Wyman sat at the head of the table, shoveling salted cod and honeyed ham into his mouth with occasional gulps of ale and the odd apple tart. Rickard, who sat to his left, japed that he would soon be too fat to ride his own horse in the joust at that rate, and the table burst into laughter. Steffon's loud hoots boomed through the hall, and even Tywin couldn't stop chuckling as he tried to take a sip from his goblet, running a hand through his thick golden hair.

Harrion Flint watched bemusedly as the meal played out; as more courses we brought forth and more flagons were drained, the table gradually fell into comedic chaos. Ale dripped through Rickard's beard as he hoisted the ten year old Brandon onto his shoulders and armed him with a mutton leg, mocking a charge toward Wyman as both men laughed breathlessly. Steffon Baratheon, in all his six feet of black-haired muscle, soon challenged the hulking Lord Hoarfrost Umber to an arm wrestling match, and the entire hall erupted into wild shouts and cheers as the table threatened to crack beneath the two struggling giants. Two opposing crowds quickly gathered, and before the match had even concluded, Steffon's eldest son, Robert, only ten but already strong, threw a punch at Medger Cerwyn, who was thrice his age and twice his height; such an inebriated clamor erupted then that Harrion couldn't even tell who won. The groups quickly forgot what they were fighting about, though, erupting into a drunken rendition of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair", arm in arm, with Jon Arryn climbing onto the table to lead them in the song.

Harrion's end of the table remained much less rowdy. Barristan and Rhaegar talked quietly to each other, the prince occasionally casting bored glances to the other side of the room. Walder Frey whispered sweet nothings into the ear of an equally bored-looking serving girl whom he had pulled into his lap, while beside him, Stannis, Steffon's second son, watched the night's proceedings with a scowl.

"Look at them," the boy of eight grunted between bites of a peach, "they pretend to be proper rulers, but drink makes them all act like fools, even my father."

He tossed a nearby goblet's contents behind him onto the stone floor, shaking his head in disgust.

"Drink's not all that bad." Harrion offered mildly, sipping at his beer. "It lets men relax, release. The world would go mad without it."

Stannis scoffed.

"Have you met my father? He _releases_ enough when he's not drunk."

He stood, curtly muttering goodnight before retiring upstairs. All the while, the crowd of reveling drunkards was making its way toward the quiet end of the room, and before Harrion could blink, two young lordlings, Jason Mallister and Randyll Tarly, were dueling with fish skewers on top of the table in front of him. As he stood to escape the food the two were spilling, Wyman grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him into their circle.

"Come on, Harry!" The new lord cried, a wide smile on his red face. "We're one and thirty, not one and eighty! Let loose for once in your life!"

The two were indeed the same age, and had been close friends since childhood, when Harrion served as page in the court of Wyman's father. He had always been the more reserved and quiet of the two, as the night's feast was proving an apt demonstration of. Finally relenting to Wyman's plying, though, Harrion chugged down a flagon of ale being passed from lord to lord, and joined them as they all bellowed the verses of "The Lusty Lad".

"There he goes!" Rodrik Ryswell shouted in triumph once he had finished, gesturing to the newcomer with a wine-soaked goblet.

Several serving girls and maids began to make their way to the table to clear the nobles' refuse; Wyman grabbed a comely young blonde as she passed, and with a drunken chuckle, he pressed her bosom against Harrion's chest. Falling out of step with the rest of the group, the two stumbled backward until they bumped against a nearby wall. Her full breasts were almost entirely visible beneath his chin, and with a coy grin, she put her arms around his back. Harrion went red, stuttering as he attempted to think of some excuse to push her away. But her embrace was too warm, and as their heads came together, her lips were too soft on his own.

"Let's get out of here," she hissed, casting a glance back to the crowd, which was carrying on seemingly without noticing his absence.

"A- aye."

A minute later, they were alone in a quiet back corridor, and Harrion was tearing open her blouse, his hands running over her supple breasts as he kissed her madly, their tongues tangling together.

"What do I call you?" he whispered breathlessly as her hands found his throbbing manhood and slid into his pants.

"Nance," she half said, half moaned as his mouth moved down to her breasts, "and you?"

"Harrion."

She began to undo her hair, then grabbed a clump of his, moaning again.

"You some lord's son?"

He lifted her dress with one hand and slid two fingers into her throbbing womanhood, moving them back and forth until his hand was soaked and dripping.

"Aye, Lord Flint's."

She pulled his head up from her chest, once more brushing her tongue greedily against his before locking eyes with him.

"I want to have your baby."

Harrion knew then what she likely intended- to show up at Flint's Finger nine months later with a child in her arms, demanding hospitality and a warm bed- but in that moment, he didn't care. He grabbed Nance by her side, turning her over and entering her in one swift movement, eliciting a groan she muffled with one hand. Neither spoke much after that; they filled the hallway with a long series of moans and pants as Harrion plunged in and out of her faster and faster.

"More," she whispered between thrusts, "more, please, my lord… oh, gods, keep going."

Their bodies moved rhythmically against the wall, locked together as she tightened against him.

"Faster, my lo… oh, my lord… they'll be looking for me upstairs soon."

He obliged unquestioningly, grabbing her hips and pushing deep inside her; she couldn't conceal her scream of pleasure. His pace quickened, and he bent her further over, pounding faster and faster, edging nearer and nearer to climax. He finally reached it with a wordless cry; his seed spilled into her in spurts, dripping to the floor as she sunk to her knees with soft sounds of pleasure. Just as she was turning to clean the rest from his throbbing manhood, though, a foot began to tap behind them. His pants flying up his legs, Harrion whirled to find Barbrey Ryswell standing in the middle of the corridor, her arms crossed and a bemused look in her eyes. Barely twelve, she already had a reputation for meanness that he wasn't eager to test.

"Well well, what have we here?"

As Harrion fumbled for a response, Nance quickly drew up her blouse and shuffled down the hall, her face an even brighter shade of crimson than his. When he couldn't manage anything coherent, Barbrey continued haughtily.

"What I think we have here is something that your lady wife would be very displeased to hear about- I hear Larissa Flint is the jealous type. That right?"

Harrion's tongue was practically numb at this point.

"That's right, I know who you are. What I want to know is what you're going to give me to keep me from telling your wife that you bedded another woman, and telling Lord Stout that a married man just took his only daughter's maidenhead."

His mouth finally began to move again, and he frowned, one eyebrow cocked.

"Lord Stout? What are you talking about? That was a-"

"Serving girl? Hardly. That was Nancei Stout, you oaf. She's here serving as a handmaid to Lord Wyman's wife, and she was a maiden."

A quick glance downward confirmed her words; though he hadn't noticed it at first on account of the hall's dim lighting, bright red blood was mixed in with the spilt seed that had pooled on the stones beneath the wall. Harrion's lips opened then closed then opened again, his eyes wide with shock and fear and guilt all mixed into one. Barbrey read his face like an open book, grinning wider and wider by the second.

"I can't blame you for panicking- I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. But back to the matter of my payment. What are you going to do to keep me from talking?"

His mind racing, Harrion sputtered out a disorganized series of ideas.

"Any… anything you want. I'll give you a horse, two horses. I'll have my smiths make you a necklace, I'll give you my nieces as handmaids, both of them."

Barbrey pouted.

"I already have all of those. You're going to have to get more creative if you don't want your wife and Lord Stout to string your guts for garters."

Exasperated, he ran his trembling hands through his hair.

"What, then? Tell me, please."

She made a show of looking contemplative, rocking back and forth on her heels.

"Well you could start by telling her to name the baby after me."


End file.
